The Count of Monte Christo

It must be the start of a new year. That’s usually the only time I tackle a classic this enormously, obnoxiously, huge. One thousand two hundred seventy six pages, to be exact.

I had this book on my list for a long time for a couple reasons. First, we visited the grave site of Alexandre Dumas over the summer and I became curious what kind of storyteller gets a grave site in a crypt in the basement of the Pantheon overlooking (if it weren’t in the basement) the Eiffel Tower. My second reason for reading the book was because I’d heard from a number of reliable sources that “it’s a quick read.”

I’ve always been suspicious of someone who says “it’s a quick read.” Back in the day, I went for a belly button piercing with my roommate, and I volunteered to go first. Since that fateful day, I’ve given birth to triplets, gotten a root canal and had a cyst taken off right beneath my eye. Nothing compared to the pain of the belly button piercing—nothing. Even so, when I finished with my piercing and went into the room where my roommate was waiting, and she asked how it was, I answered, “not bad.” Misery does, indeed, love company, and I had no intention of going through this pain alone. Which, I’m assuming, is what every person who has invested the time to read “The Count of Monte Christo” is thinking when they say, “it’s a quick read.”

I can report so far, from the vantage point of page 650 that it may not be a quick read, but it’s a fun read, and it’s holding my interest more than many, many books half (or even one quarter) of its size.

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